The Great Mistake
by Saffie-lew
Summary: AU after OotP. Draco Malfoy makes a bet...then wishes he hadn't over reacted. Not that he over reacted, you understand, Malfoys don't over react...The argument was perfectly rational, besides, it was all Pansy's fault. HPDM. SLASH. Cracky.
1. Prologue: The Bet

It started, as these things had a tendency to, with a bet. To be more specific - for it is difficult to be less so - it started on one Monday morning outside Potions, when Pansy Parkinson had the nerve to tell Draco Malfoy that he was full of himself. Now, as you can imagine, Draco Malfoy did not take this at all well, which is where the bet came in.

"You demented hag," – Pansy that was – "keep your mouth shut or use it for more productive purposes."

Pansy glared.

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Well we all know what you're usually doing with it."

He looked around at the other Slytherins, who stood off to the side, for corroboration, but they were far too intent on self-preservation to get involved.

"Why you arrogant, pompous, little arsehole! Is your dick really so small that you have to constantly boost your ego with pretentious bitching? Is that why you've never kept a girlfriend longer than two weeks?"

Draco exploded – being well known for his temper.

"You fucking whore! How dare you cast aspersions on my manhood! I could have anyone I wanted. You're just pissed because I don't want a prissy slag like you!"

Pansy waved off the comment with a furious gesture that came uncomfortably close to Draco's aforementioned manhood.

"But can you keep them, Draco? Can you keep them _satisfied_?"

"Of course I could bloody keep them! If I wanted to!"

"Oh," Pansy was mocking, "so that's why. You don't _want_ to keep them. Well that's a handy fucking excuse isn't it _Drakey_."

"You fucking bitch!" Draco spat. He wasn't taking Pansy's comments well.

"How about," Pansy began, in the manner of someone who had just had a particularly brilliant idea –which, of course, she had – "a little bet."

"A bet," Draco repeated, scowling.

"A bet," she repeated, "if you can seduce a person of my choosing, and stick with them for three months, then you win. And if you fail, as you inevitably will, I win."

"What do I win?" Draco asked, curiosity peaked in a typically Slytherin way.

"You mean other than the acknowledgment that you don't have a dick like a limp quill?" She asked with a smirk.

Draco growled.

"Name your terms," she told him – possibly the largest mistake she had made since the action that had started this morning-long feud.

Draco mused, something made considerably more difficult by the angry red fog that was clouding his mind. Finally, he had the perfect idea.

"How about," he drawled, smirking, "I win and you spend the rest of the year giving me blowjobs on demand, putting that talented mouth of yours to use."

His smirk widened as Pansy glared at him.

"Fine!" She spat eventually.

"And," he added quickly, "you have to praise my sexual prowess both loudly and obnoxiously at least once a week."

She nodded sharply.

"In Professor McGonagall's lesson," he finished.

Pansy's jaw was set as she once again nodded her agreement.

"And if I win, which I will-"

"Then why are you looking so nervous?" Draco asked innocently.

"I will win, Draco, and when I do…you will regret it," she snarled, right in his face.

Fortunately for Draco, it was at that moment that Harry Potter turned up, dragged behind his mudblood friend, and looking thoroughly miserable. It was doubly fortunate – if that is even possible – that at that moment a fabulous idea began to coagulate in Draco's mind.

Of course, he was more than capable of winning that ego-reducing bet on his own merit, but that would have taken much more effort, and Draco, ever the typical Slytherin, was not overly fond of effort. Or risks for that matter, and Pansy could not win that bet. There was another option. There was somebody who owed him a huge favour. A favour nobody but he and said bloody irritating person – particularly not Pansy – knew about.

He smirked and turned back to Pansy.

"How about a challenge," he suggested, "how about we make it Potter."

Pansy narrowed her eyes at him, before a smirk slid onto her face.

"My, my, Draco. You are a masochist."

That was why he was currently standing in a dusty, unused, potions classroom – very bad for his new dragon hide boots – with Harry Potter, who had just blurted, "You want me to what!" in an amusingly high pitched voice, and was staring at him as if he'd lost his marbles – which might well have been the case.

_This,_ Draco mused while watching Potter goggle, _is going to be a very long three months._


	2. Chapter 1: What!

Chapter One

What!

"You want me to what!" Harry exclaimed, being – not unreasonably – startled by the request, or, more accurately, the demand, of the Slytherin.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Are you deaf as well, Potter?"

"Fuck off, Malfoy. I'm going." He strode towards the door, stopping short when Malfoy stepped in front of it – obviously; he had anticipated this exact situation.

"You owe me, Potter."

Harry snorted. "You seriously expect me to believe that you would cancel out a life debt for this…this…_ridiculous bet_!" – Harry was justifiably sceptical; after all, Malfoy was much more likely to hold the debt over him for the rest of his life than to let him of so – relatively – easily.

"Reputation is everything, Potter. It would look very bad for me to go back on this bet. It would make me appear weak."

"Yet you expect me to throw away my reputation by, not only pretending to be gay, but also by pretending to be so utterly tasteless that I would go out with you!"

Even a half-blind and pissed off Harry could see the effort it took the other boy to ignore the insult – though he did sneer down at Harry's choice of oversized attire, and no doubt a few choice remarks on his tastelessness were at the forefront of his mind.

"You saved the world," he sneered instead, "I'm sure they'll forgive a little `lapse in judgement`. Besides, you don't have much choice. You might have saved the world, but I saved you," the git finished with a smug little smirk that made Harry want to bury his fist in his face. He didn't though – thanks to a great deal of self-restraint, and a nagging image of Hermione in the back of his head.

Really, he thought, the whole saving the world thing ought to have cancelled out his debt to Malfoy. Apparently, that was not the case, and Harry was not inclined to chance it, due to a long and rather hair-raising lecture from Hermione on the kind of things that happened to wizards who ignored their debts – though Ron said his mother told him the same things when he wouldn't eat his sprouts.

"You'd think," Harry muttered to himself, "that bloody wizarding debts would be smart enough to tell the difference between a deliberate effort to save someone's life, and tripping over a stone while trying to run away and accidentally knocking a person out of the way of a stray killing curse."

Malfoy, who had apparently heard his bout of mumbling – nosey little bastard that he was – smirked widely and said, "I do so love those ancient laws. Now come, Potter. Sit. We have plans to make."

Harry growled at being treated like an animal, the – upon realising he now sounded like an animal – settled for scowling deeply and sat down heavily on a mucky old stool.

"Or rather," Malfoy added, wrinkling his nose in distaste and casting a cleaning spell before sitting down on his own stool, "I have plans to make. _You_ are just going to do as I say."

Harry's hands clenched to fists. Surely, it was better to be dead than to have to go through this humiliation.

"Get on with it."

"Be nice," Malfoy told him in a patronising tone, "or I'll have you serenade me in potions."

"Look!" Harry shouted, having finally found his limit, "I'll go along with this bloody bet of yours 'cause I don't have a choice! But I will not ridicule myself-" He paused. "I won't ridicule myself more than necessary. So don't push it!"

"Believe me, Potter. I don't want to spend anymore time with you than absolutely vital. Once this debt is gone, and school ends, we never have to see each other again. Right?"

Harry nodded, speechless – rightfully astounded that they actually agreed on something. So astounded was he, that the rest of the meeting went almost amicably. Draco gave him orders. Harry nodded dumbly. They both came to an agreement to involve as little physical contact as possible in their `relationship`. And then they were done.

Harry stood to leave as something struck him.

"Hey Malfoy," – they had cultivated a rather casual air over the past hour.

"What?" Malfoy asked tersely, apparently examining the back of his robes for dirt.

"How did you get into this bet in the first place? I thought you and Parkinson were mates."

Malfoy looked up at him, satisfied that his robes were, in fact, dustless. Now, if Harry had been the observant type, he would have noticed the flush of pink that spread over the Slytherin's face at the question, as it was, he remained clueless as Malfoy proceeded to rant.

"Don't presume to understand the relationship I have with Pansy. We Slytherins are far too complex for your primitive mind to comprehend. The nature of our disagreement is none of you business."

With that, he stalked past Harry and to the door, calling over his shoulder:

"Remember, Potter. Keep your mouth shut."

***

Of course, the likelihood of Harry actually keeping his mouth shut was so slight as to be considered negligible, especially as the first people he came into contact with upon slumping down on a sofa in the Gryffindor common room looking thoroughly despondent, were his two best friends, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger.

"You won't believe what I've gotten myself into now," he moaned to his understanding companions, "I swear, the universe has it in for me."

***

"He wants you to what!" Ron's outraged shout could be heard throughout the common room ten minutes later, when he finally recovered from the nasty shock and regained the ability to speak.

"That's what I said," Harry sighed, sinking further into the plush cushions and wishing they would just swallow him up – probably not the safest thing to do considering he was in Hogwarts. "Hermione?" He asked, seeking the opinion of someone who actually had a functioning brain.

"It certainly is strange," she mused, frowning, "did he tell you why he and Pansy were fighting in the first place?"

"Nope," Harry sulked, "just blathered on about being complex or some shit like that."

"Language, Harry," Hermione chastised, half-heartedly, already lost in the workings of her own mind, filing and cross-referencing anything that might be of use.

"So, what're you going to do, mate?" Ron asked.

"What can I do?"

"You're not seriously going to go along with that arsehole!"

"Language," Hermione commented vaguely.

"I owe him my life, Ron! Bloody rock! Do you think I want that hanging over my head forever?" Harry hissed – not literally, he still hadn't gotten the hang of that, though he had scared a fair few first years while practising.

"I don't see the harm in playing along," Hermione told them, snapping back to life. This caused Ron to cross his arms over his chest and start sulking.

"We _have_ agreed to limit all physical contact to as little as possible," Harry said to them – well, more to Hermione really.

Ron paled at the thought of having _any_ physical contact with Malfoy that didn't involve knocking his lights out, Hermione just nodded.

"The problem with that," she said, in a way that made Harry's stomach twitch in a nauseating fashion as he stared at her with a look of near panic, "is that Malfoy always tends to be rather physical with his girlfriends-" Harry winced at the term, "in public."

She looked at him with the type of clinical detachment that Harry had never been able to master. At which time, Harry did what any self respecting teenaged boy would do in his situation, switched of his brain and announced:

"I'm going flying. Coming Ron?"

TBC.


	3. Chapter 2: Day 1: It Begins

Chapter Two

It Begins

Draco carefully buttered his hot croissant, while casting surreptitious glances at Potter, who was poking listlessly at a plate of bacon and eggs.

"You seem awfully pleased with yourself for someone in your position," Pansy commented. She had finished the one slice of toast and banana that her most recent diet allowed for breakfast, and was patiently filing her nails while waiting for Draco – the two had made friends again after some minor threats from Blaise.

"That, Pansy my darling, is because I'm going to win. I have already implemented my plan."

He had spent most of last night thinking up something plausible, having left Potter mainly in the dark to ensure genuine surprise. Of course, his dedication to the bet did mean he had had to use considerable amount of concealing potion on the bags beneath his eyes – unwilling to look anything less than perfect.

"Oh?" Pansy inquired curiously, looking up from her nail file. "I've been wondering about that."

Draco took a bite from his croissant and gestured for her to go on. Pansy wrinkled her nose.

"Darling, it's amazing you're not fat."

"I have an aristocratic metabolism; it's used to rich food."

Pansy rolled her eyes.

"Anyway," she continued, "as I was saying, I've been wondering why you chose Potter, and I've come to a conclusion."

"Oh?" Draco took another bite of his breakfast. He wasn't worried that Pansy had worked it out – after all, who would think _he'd _saved Potter's life?

"It explains a lot actually."

Draco was happily chewing away, and had just swallowed when Pansy announced:

"You fancy him."

He promptly choked.

After Crabbe had dislodged the croissant from his throat by means of a rather hard and painful thump on the back, Draco was able to cough:

"What!"

"I makes sense," Pansy shrugged, looking across the hall at the person in question, "he's hardly unattractive. And it does explain why you're so obsessed with him. And why your girlfriends don't last."

Draco internally cursed as she came uncomfortably close to something true in her rant of nonsense. He hadn't considered what the bet would do to rumours of his sexuality.

"For your information, Pansy," Draco said tersely – being a Slytherin, he had planned for her questioning – "I suggested Potter because I have better things to be doing with my time, and knowing you, I would have ended up seducing the Mudblood." He pointed his croissant at the bushy haired girl beside Potter.

"And you think Potter is the easy option?" Pansy asked, as she abandoned all pretext of shaping her nails.

"He is," Draco assured, "just think about it."

Pansy nodded to show she was listening.

"He's an orphan."

"So?" Pansy prompted.

"So," Draco sighed – he really hated it when Pansy decided to be deliberately obtuse, "you're a socially inept orphan, whose parental figures keep dying at the hands of a half-blood maniac who, incidentally, has been trying to kill you your whole life…what's the one thing you want more than anything? What's the one thing you're absolutely desperate for?"

Pansy looked across the hall, her eyes flicking up and down as she took in Potter's form.

"Fashion sense?" She suggested, turning back to him.

Draco frowned, looking over Potter himself.

"Well, yes," he conceded – even Potter's school robes were atrocious, - "What else?"

Pansy looked back to Potter, and then to Draco again.

"A hairbrush?"

Draco rolled his eyes.

"Love!" He exclaimed, attracting the attention of a large group of surrounding Slytherins and a fair few Ravenclaws.

They turned away when met with Draco's full, patented scowl – more precisely, no. 10, for getting rid of minor pests.

"Harry Potter," Draco smirked, leaning towards Pansy conspiratorially, "just wants someone to love him."

"But," Pansy frowned, "everyone loves him. Well, nearly everyone."

Draco shook his head. He had given the matter serious thought as he lay in bed plotting the previous night – in the interest of covering all angles. The discovery had been quite startling at first, but Draco was soon finding ways to use it to his own advantage.

"It's not the same though, Pansy," he told her, "what good is the love of millions of strangers, if nobody loves you for who you really are?"

"Is that a trick question?" Pansy frowned.

Draco rolled his eyes again.

"Put yourself in Potter's shoes-"

"Do I have to? They're not even real leather." Pansy frowned.

Draco refrained from rolling his eyes this time as he was starting to feel rather dizzy – talking to Pansy usually did that to him – and settled for scowling.

"Dear God, Pansy! I meant metaphorically! And for the love of Merlin stop frowning! You're giving yourself wrinkles!" He cried in exasperation.

Pansy's mouth dropped open in outrage and her hand flew to her forehead, smoothing out her skin. Draco smirked and went back to eating his breakfast, which had gone cold.

He had finished eating when Pansy finally stopped checking her face in the mirror she'd conjured and turned to him. Obviously, her need to gossip had overcome her desire to sulk.

"What have you planned then, darling?" Her voice held a vicious note.

"You'll see," he replied, pouring himself some coffee, and adding his customary seven sugars – much to Pansy's very vocal disgust – "Why don't you concentrate on your end of the bet."

"Oh, I'm nearly finished planning your forfeit." She smirked.

"That's not what I meant, darling. I would start altering your diet now, if I was you. There are a lot of calories in-" Draco was interrupted by the timely arrival of the morning post. Judging by the horrified look on Pansy's face, he had said enough. "Ah, here we go." He looked over at the Gryffindor table.

Potter's bird had just landed on his shoulder, and stuck out its leg. Draco felt a little jealous. Potter's bird, as well as being very pretty, was also amiable and well trained; his owl, Erasmus, was always snapping at his fingers and stealing his breakfast. Bloody bird.

"Is that a rose!" Pansy exclaimed in disgust.

It was, in fact, a rose. More specifically, a red rose, stolen from Professor Sprout's personal green house for non-harmful muggle plants – though Draco was sure some of the muggle plants he had seen would not be considered non-harmful by the school governors. Draco had contemplated getting one of the first years to steal it, but as it wasn't strictly within school rules, or even the law…Oh, and he had taken some of that muggle weed, just for…evidence.

"A rose!" Pansy hissed, "could you be anymore nauseating?"

Draco shrugged, watching as Potter's friends teased him.

"He's a Gryffindor, one needs to be blunt about such things."

"But does one need to be quite so tacky, Draco?"

"I really don't think you're in position to call anyone tacky," Draco drawled, "or have you forgotten about the hot pink boots you were wearing when you came over in the summer? You remember, the ones with the little golden dragons…" He smirked.

"My Grandmother gave them to me," Pansy objected, "what was I supposed to do?"

"Feed them to a hippogriff?" Draco suggested.

Pansy glared.

Draco was about to bask in the success of his incredible distraction techniques when Pansy stopped glaring and spoke up.

"A bloody rose though," she grumbled, "you'll give us Slytherins a bad name."

Draco sighed, and took a substantial swig of coffee before settling in to explain his reasoning. Explaining things to Pansy when she was having a ditzy day was not an easy task.

He sighed again for good measure.

***

Harry's day was not going well, and he had little hope in it getting any better.

It had started, rather uncomfortably, with a dream. One of _those_ dreams. And while Harry was not usually adverse to such dreams – although they could be quite embarrassing – this dream was different. This dream was wrong, and most certainly a result of whatever twisted residue Voldemort had left in his mind, because this dream had involved a very naked, very aroused, Draco Malfoy. As you can probably guess, Harry considered this a nightmare comparable to those sent by Voldemort at the height of the war – despite his body's rather obvious arguments to the contrary.

Then, after taking a very long, very unpleasant, very cold shower, he had gone to breakfast, grumpy and ready to snap at anyone who dared to speak to him. For a few minutes, while he picked at his hearty breakfast, feeling too sick to eat, he had thought the day was settling down to normal, and then Hedwig had arrived with a rose tied to her leg, and the teasing began.

"Who's your secret admirer, Harry?"

"Harry, is there a message?"

"What does it say, Harry?"

"Do you know who it's from, Harry?"

"What are you? A girl?" That one was Seamus.

"Is that a note? Let me see!" Lavender Brown snatched the small piece of parchment from his hand – it was a rather impressive feat considering that she was sitting four seats down the table.

Harry, who had been turning steadily redder, propped his chin on his hand and prepared to weather the humiliation, as he had done so many times before.

"_Dear_ _Harry_," Lavender repeated, once sure she had everybody's attention, "I knew you would not believe me if I told you in person, so please accept this gift as a gesture of my sincerity. I am sorry for everything. _Love_ Your Secret Admirer."

That was met with a confused silence. Harry took the opportunity to snatch the paper back from Lavender and stalk from the room.

The bell rang and Harry groaned. It was the first time he had ever been disappointed that History of Magic was over, but dinnertime had come far too soon. After breakfast he couldn't help but dread what Malfoy had in store next, because, if Harry was honest with himself – which he was desperately trying not to be, given what he tended to tell himself – he probably would have liked the rose, and the oddly sincere note. It wasn't a sincere note though, and he found he had to remind himself of that far too often. The rose was not sweet and thoughtful, nor was it exceptionally beautiful; it was a dead flower from an evil and deceitful person.

He hated Malfoy. He hated flowers. He hated whoever had thrown the killing curse that resulted in his life-debt to Malfoy. He hated the rock the other boy had tripped over. He hated the world. But most of all, he hated himself for being so bloody predictable.

"Come on Harry," Hermione encouraged, "You can't hide away forever."

"Yeah, mate," Ron groaned, he sounded as miserable as Harry felt, "just imagine a life without Malfoy. That's got to be worth…all this." He didn't sound too convinced, and the pat on the shoulder that accompanied his reassurance was far from enthusiastic.

As it was, he was worrying for nothing. His friends – and just about the rest of the school – spent the hour discussing the note from breakfast and interrogating him about the secret admirer, but other than that, all was quiet.

Harry should have known it wouldn't last, but was simply glad for the reprieve. He had the ominous feeling that things were going to get much worse.


	4. Chapter 3: Day 2: Let's Call the Whole T

Chapter Three

The Bet's Off

It was three days before Draco made another move, mainly to let the gossip and rumours circulate, let Potter stew for a while, but also because, after Pansy's assumption that he fancied Potter, he thought he had better write to his father. He tried to keep it as simple as possible:

_Dear Father,_

_ Due to a wager I have entered into with Pansy, you may hear some unpleasant rumours about my involvement with Harry Potter over the next few months. Be assured that this is all they are. My arrangement with Pansy is a matter of family honour, and I assure you that when the contest is over, all will return to normal._

_ - Your Loyal Son,_

_ Draco._

He was particularly proud of the line about family honour, something that was very important to his father. (The size of his manhood was most certainly a matter of family honour.)

Of course, he should have known better than to think that would suffice – his father was notorious for his dislike of Potter. After sending the missive during lunch – mainly an avoidance tactic - Pansy was driving him crazy – he had not expected a reply from his busy father for at least two days, if he received one at all. Imagine Draco's surprise then when, at dinnertime, just as he was tucking into mince and dumplings – something his mother never let him have as she considered it `common` - and desperately tried to ignore Pansy blathering about some centrefold from her contraband magazine, his father's owl soared towards him.

There was something ominous about the bird, and not just the large black shadow it cast across the hall. Damon gave him the creeps, which was why his parents' usually used his mother's bird, Aurelia, a nice, amiable screech owl. Damon, an imposing Great Horned Owl, was only used for business, or when his father was in a bad mood.

It landed in front of him with a graceful thump, right between the jug of pumpkin juice and the gravy boat, and stuck out its leg. Draco glared. Damon glared back. Draco scowled and put down his knife and fork, carefully. The bird looked at his plate, gave a snort of disapproval that reminded him strangely of his grandmother Malfoy, and turned away impatiently. Draco untied the note cautiously so as not to loose a finger – as a child he had been convinced that the Dark Lord's soul had taken up residence in the bird. He refused to thank the animal – as he now knew it was not a vessel for the essence of an evil lunatic. It left with a final glare, without disturbing even a napkin.

The letter seemed heavy in his hands. Draco took a quick glance down the table. The Slytherins were respectfully ignoring him, recognising Lucius Malfoy's owl; even Pansy, whose nosiness was notorious, was studiously prodding a dumpling that she refused to eat. The rest of the houses weren't nearly as tactful. Commoners. With a trepidation that he hadn't felt since the time he'd been given detention with Potter in the first year – his father had been less than pleased – he cracked open the Malfoy seal.

_Draco,_

_ I had thought you more intelligent than you seem to be. Potter has caused nothing but trouble for our family, I had hoped that trend had come to an end. I strongly advise that you find a way out of this childish game you are conducting with Miss Parkinson. Act you age, Draco, and do not disappoint me._

_ - Your Father_

_ Lucius._

From his father, that was virtually a howler, an outburst of unequalled proportions. There was nothing Draco could do; his father's word – as the head of the family – was law. He closed his fist around the parchment.

"The bet's off." He said, with great distaste.

"Pardon?" Pansy asked, looking up from the carbohydrates she was nudging around her plate.

"The bet's off." Draco repeated, and looked up, mouth pinched.

Pansy was grinning.

"I win!" There was a vicious glint in her eye that Draco recognised all too well.

"No one wins," Draco glared, "the bet is cancelled. It was immature anyway."

Of course, he should have known better than that. While Pansy could be ditzy at times, she was more than competent when it came to looking after her own interests.

"To cancel, darling, I would have to agree." She grinned sweetly. "And I don't."

"I don't care if you agree or not you hag," Draco hissed, "the bet is off."

Pansy's eyes narrowed at the insult.

"Do you concede?"

"No." He spat back.

"Make-up your mind, darling," she sneered, "are we playing or not? And do bear in mind that I have had two whole days to come up with the perfect forfeit.

The look on Pansy's face was so sly that it unnerved even Draco, who liked to think of himself as the most Slytherin Slytherin since the great Salazar himself. It was the cause of great debate within him.

_ `What Pansy's planned can't be any worse than what Father would do if he found out,`_ one side of him argued.

_**` Oh, really**_,` the other side said sceptically, _**`she's a woman. Women are tricky, and Pansy's the trickiest of them all.`**_

_`He was a servant of the Dark Lord,`_ the first part yelled at him as if he was an idiot.

_**`Pansy's the most dangerous person in Hogwarts,`**_ the second argued back. This was a well-known fact, even Snape could not compare to the pure evilness of the youngest Parkinson daughter, who had learnt the tradition of gossiping and bitching, from her mother and perfected it with the aid of four older sisters.

_**`Death Eater!`**_ The first yelled.

_`Bitch.`_

_**Death Eater.`**_

___`Bitch.`_

"Shut up!" He shouted to the voices.

Pansy was staring at him warily.

"Draco?"

His attention was drawn back to the wicked witch herself. He glared.

"Fine. The bet's still on, but we change the target."

"You chose the target, darling."

"And now I'm changing it." He ground out.

"Ah, ah, ah. It doesn't work that way. You've bought your broomstick, now ride it." She waggled her eyebrows.

"Listen to me you malicious bitch. There is no bet. There is no forfeit. And if you spout another broomstick joke I will personally see to it that you never speak again." The strength of his ire had forced him to his feet.

Pansy just smiled nastily at him.

"You know what happens to wizards who recant on their deals, darling," she said with saccharine sweetness.

Draco glared. Opened his mouth to say something. Shut it again. Opened it. Turned on his heel and stormed out of the hall – in a very manly way, of course, looking not at all like a teenage girl throwing a temper tantrum because her daddy wouldn't let her go out.

"Looks like you're off the hook, mate," Ron muttered with a cheerful grin as the hall erupted in whispers.

Harry grinned back at him. They had been watching the fight like the rest of the school, including the professors – Flitwick had leaned so far forward that he slipped off the books that were always piled on his chair.

"Great. I might be able to get a decent night's sleep tonight."

Ron opened his mouth, probably to ask what he was talking about; since the answer involved the disturbing dreams he had experienced the night before, Harry should have been glad for Hermione's interruption. He wasn't.

"I wouldn't count on it," she said quite clearly from somewhere behind a dusty, dull book on Arithmacy.

Harry froze. For one nasty moment, he thought that Hermione might have found out about the dream somehow – he wouldn't put anything past her.

"What!" Ron exclaimed in renewed panic, seeming to forget the hundreds of people around them who watched keenly in the belief that the second act of their evening's entertainment had begun. "Didn't you hear them?" He asked, his voice unnaturally high. "It's all off!"

Hermione looked up from her book.

"Malfoy may have spat the dummy out, but a bet is a bet." She looked at them with a steady gaze, they stared right back with black faces. She let out an exasperated breath. "He can't recant on the deal without very unpleasant consequences. I dare say that's what Pansy was reminding him of just before he…left."

She turned back to her book, leaving the two boys looking justifiably shattered.

"He'll probably sulk for an hour or two," she went on, "then realise Pansy's right and skulk back to her, making it seem as if he's doing her a favour."

Harry knew she was right, mainly because he'd used up all his luck in the war with Voldemort and wasn't due any more for quite some time. He sunk despondently into his chair and glared at the plate of dumplings and mash in front of him. Just moments before, he had been thinking of having second helpings – dumplings were a favourite of his, and Dudley always stole his at home – now his appetite was gone, disappearing to wherever his self-respect went.

As usual, Hermione was right. Well, more or less. Draco actually managed to sulk for a full 3 hours and 49 minutes, before skulking moodily into Pansy's dorm – the Slytherins had figured a way past the pesky booby traps decades ago, though there was still the odd amusing accident caused by first years.

Pansy was lying on her bed in the otherwise deserted room – when she wanted privacy she was obeyed. When Draco walked in, she looked up from _Witch Weekly_ and smiled.

"Do have a seat, Draco. I'll be with you in a moment."

He glared and, just to spite her, stayed standing.

"Despite the possibility of being disowned," he began moodily, "I am willing to continue with this…bet."

"Oh, isn't that sweet of you."

"Yes, considering the circumstances, it is."

"He's not going to disown you over a silly game, Draco, you're his only heir," she told him, matter-of-factly.

"My father's history with Potter can hardly be considered logical."

"You chose him," she practically sang, and put down her magazine, "why did you choose him anyway?"

"You know why." He sat down beside her and stretched out his long legs.

"Ah yes," she patted his thigh, "it was an entirely logical, unemotional decision." She paused. "Just like your father."

Draco glared at her.

"Sometimes I really don't like you." He sulked, leaning his head on her shoulder.

"I know." She wrapped an arm around his shoulder and stroked his hair. "Would you like me to paint your nails?"


	5. Chapter 4: Day 3: It's My Party: Part I

I'm so glad (and a little bit surprised) that people like the Pansy/Draco friendship so much.

Chapter 4

Day Three

It's My Party – Part I

"Come on, Harry," Ron begged.

"No," the bundle of blankets that was currently Harry Potter replied.

"Harry."

"No."

"It'll do you good. Tell him, Hermione."

"He's right," Hermione agreed from her position on Ron's bed. "It's only been two days, Harry, you can't possibly carry on this way for the full – How long did Malfoy say?"

"He didn't." Came the muffled response.

"You've been through worse than this, mate," Ron said encouragingly, "can't think of anything at the moment mind."

Harry stuck his head out from under the quilt just in time to see Hermione glare in Ron's direction.

"There is nothing worse than this," he moaned.

It had been another broken night, filled with those disturbing dreams, and while he didn't exactly feel like getting up and traipsing down to Hogsmeade, the real reason he had his quilt pulled up to his chin had more to do with the embarrassing evidence of _the dreams_.

"Stop being so immature, both of you," Hermione told them sternly.

"Me!" Ron exclaimed, "What have I done? I was trying to get him up!"

Hermione rolled her eyes and stood up.

"Let's leave Harry to it," she said, grabbing Ron's arm and pulling him from the room. "And if you're not dressed and downstairs in fifteen minutes, Harry," there was a definite note of threat to her voice, "I'm coming back."

The door slammed shut.

"Please, please, please, let it all be another nasty dream," Harry prayed.

When he closed his eyes to better envision the divine force that would make his wish a reality, and instead saw Draco Malfoy writhing naked beneath him, he decided once and for all, there was no God.

***

"Stop moaning, Harry! I can't take any more."

Hermione was exasperated. They were sitting at the back of the Three Broomsticks and she had never in all her life seen anyone look so miserable staring into an empty bottle of butterbeer.

"You would moan too if it happened to you," Harry sulked.

"I swear, if you start sing, I'm leaving," she threatened.

"What are you going on about?" Ron asked with the usual frustration of not getting a _muggle joke_.

"Never mind," she sighed, "I'll get some more drinks."

She stood and forced her way towards the bar through the crowds of students.

"Of course I'm over seventeen," a shrill voice rang out, catching Hermione's attention – she was incurably nosey, though would deny it to the death.

She turned to see Pansy Parkinson arguing with Rosmerta. Just what she needed.

"I'm sorry, Miss, but I have an arrangement with headmaster Dumbledore. I can't sell you anything stronger than butterbeer." Rosmerta said firmly.

Hermione smirked.

"Really! What sort of establishment is this! I'd rather drink in the Hog's Head!"

"Feel free to do so," Rosmerta said briskly before turning to serve some one else.

"The cheek of some people," Parkinson was muttering to herself, "doesn't she know who I am. She's never refused to serve Draco before. Just because he's off _flirting_ with scarhead I have to be sober."

"I do hope insanity isn't contagious." Hermione interrupted her rambling.

Pansy glared. "What are you talking about, Mudblood."

The name earned her a few disgusted looks from the surrounding students – since the war, just about everyone had jumped on the Muggle loving bandwagon – Hermione just smiled.

"Bad day?"

"You could say that," Pansy replied tersely.

Hermione sighed.

"I could get you a drink," she suggested.

Pansy looked suspicious.

"A break from the men might do us both some good."

"You're not a dyke are you?" Pansy asked.

"With Malfoy as a friend, I'd hardly think such things would bother you," Hermione said with humour, after spending the morning with Harry, Pansy's hostility was nothing. She could have sworn Pansy smirked a little at that.

"I just don't want any misunderstandings, Granger."

"Then be assured that I don't want to sleep with you, Parkinson." She replied in the same brisk tone.

"Good." Pansy narrowed her eyes. "What kind of drink?"

Hermione smiled.

***

"What do you want, Malfoy?" Potter growled as Draco sat down at his and Weasley's table without asking – really, they should be honoured for his company.

"You don't mind do you?" Draco smirked, "it's rather crowded in here."

"Get lost, Pouf." Weasley spat.

Draco scowled at him, then looked suspiciously to an uncomfortable looking Potter.

"Ron knows," the boy admitted.

Draco felt the anger boil up from the simmering supply that he kept just for Potter.

"What!" He hissed. "What did I tell you? One simple instruction. All you had to do was keep your bloody mouth shut and you couldn't even manage that!" In retrospect, Draco should have known Potter couldn't keep his mouth shut, but he wasn't in any mood to blame himself. "Are you mentally damaged?"

"There are some days that I'm not sure," Potter growled. "But I don't take orders from you, and I don't lie to my friends."

"Awww. Isn't that sweet?" Draco asked sarcastically. The Gryffindor sentimentality made him nauseous. "You're wrong though."

Potter frowned. It made him look disturbingly like a lost child.

"You do take orders from me," he lowered his voice so the rest of the bar couldn't hear, "life-debt remember."

A nerve in Potter's jaw twitched.

"I wonder what would happen if Parkinson found out about that little debt."

Draco flinched.

"You wouldn't dare." He said, disbelievingly. It was such a back-stabbing double-crossing, underhand…Slytherin thing to do…He hadn't even thought Potter capable of coming up with such an idea. But he had. It caused a very alarming tug in a region that should never have anything to do with Potter. Ever.

Across the table, Weasley was smirking, or at least Draco assumed he was smirking, he looked rather constipated. Draco stood up and grabbed Potter by the sleeve before he could jerk away – if only he could transfer those reflexes onto the quidditch pitch.

"What are you -" Potter shouted, but didn't fight as Draco dragged him through the tavern.

"We need to talk privately. Tell your lap dog to back off," Malfoy hissed in his ear.

Potter hesitated for a moment before saying:

"Stay here, Ron."

Weasley called out objections, but stayed put like a good little sidekick. Potter made a valiant effort to look like he was leaving of his own volition while Draco dragged him outside, with no idea where they were going. They ended up, somehow, in an alleyway behind _Gladrags_. Draco finally released the scrap of material he had been using to control Potter and, when he was sure Potter wouldn't leg it, stepped back to a respectable distance.

"What was that all about?" Potter asked.

Draco ignored, absorbed in the far more important task of brushing down his robes, straightening them after forcing his way through the crowds. One would think it was Christmas, not just an ordinary Hogsmeade weekend.

"Are you wearing nail varnish?"

The question startled Draco out of his obsessive robe neatening. He looked up at Potter, then down at his nails, holding out his hand palm up, fingers spread.

"Pansy did them," he replied nonchalantly, admiring the unnatural shine again. Pansy was very skilled with a nail file. He frowned and added belatedly, "and it's nail strengthener, not varnish."

"Looks nice," Potter commented.

Draco stared at him with narrowed, suspicious eyes, but he seemed earnest.

"Thanks." Draco replied, awkwardly.

***

Ron sat in the Three Broomstick, waiting for Harry and Hermione to return, and trying to ignore the raucous party that had sprung up in a back corner of the pub. He really wasn't in the mood for cheerful drunks. Sullenly, he searched the room for either of his two friends – particularly for Hermione. He was feeling guilty about letting Harry go off somewhere with Malfoy and needed someone to reassure him. It was all that bloody Slytherin's fault. Bloody Malfoy, the bloody prick. Moodily, he stood and slouched out of the bar, heading for Honeydukes. Chocolate always cheered him up.

***

Harry was in the Hog's Head, musing on the surreal-ness of the situation, and waiting for Malfoy to return with their drinks – very surreal. He was currently wondering just how the obsessively clean Slytherin was going to cope with the sticky seats and beer stained tables – this resulted in some rather entertaining scenarios that always seemed to end in Malfoy being nibbled to death by nifflers. Harry had quite an imagination and, sometimes, a sadistic streak to match – perhaps if he used an antler jinx on the chair just as the other boy sat…

He was still snickering when Malfoy returned, setting a glass of, what Harry could only assume, was fire whiskey before him. Harry stared at the glass.

"I asked for a butter beer."

"I don't," Malfoy said – Harry watched him actually transfigure the chair into something made of ebony and decorated with elegant serpents that reminded Harry vaguely of Voldemort's throne – "date anyone who drinks butter beer."

Harry was about to make some, undoubtedly witty, as yet unthought-of, comment, when Malfoy placed his own drink on the table.

"What," Harry asked, incredulously, "is that?"

"It's a Flaming Pixie."

Harry blinked. "A Flaming Pouf, more like," he mumbled.

"What was that?" Malfoy asked, dangerously.

"It's pink!"

Malfoy scowled.

"It's pale red."

Harry looked at him as if he was mad, which, considering their circumstances, was entirely probable. In fact, it was entirely probable that he himself had gone loopy from the strain of the war, and was now locked safely up in St. Mungo's having delusions in a nice, cosy, padded cell.

"That," Harry commented, ignoring his possible insanity, "is the gayest drink I've ever seen. No wonder you chose me for that stupid bet, and not a girl like a normal bloke."

Malfoy glared.

"At least," he sneered," I've fucked girls. Something of which _you_ could never be accused."

Harry felt the blood rush to his face, leaving his cheeks embarrassingly red.

"Fuck off, Malfoy." He grabbed his glass and took a healthy swig of the brown liquid. And promptly choked.

When, after several minutes, he recovered from his coughing fit – that stuff really burned – and looked at Malfoy through watering eyes, the blond was smiling. Harry was so startled by this that he actually forgot to breath. This, much to the amusement of the other occupants of the pub, resulted in _another_ embarrassing coughing fit – wasn't breathing supposed to be automatic?

"Are you quite finished?" Malfoy asked, when he was sitting upright and breathing normally again. He reminded Harry eerily of Mary Poppins.

Harry crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, sulking.

"Really, Potter, it was a simple enough question, even for you."

"If you're going to spend the afternoon insulting me-"

"Relax!" Malfoy held up his hands, "don't take everything so personally."

"You were insulting me!"

"If you think that was an insult I clearly haven't been up to my usual standard lately."

Harry opened his mouth to respond, then stopped. Malfoy was right – damn that sounded so wrong. For want of something better to do, Harry settled for glaring.

"Oh, so now you're angry because I'm _not_ insulting you," Malfoy sniffed, "I can't help but admire your logic." He took a sip from the horrendously pink straw of his horrendously pink drink.

"Your _presence_ insults me, Malfoy."

"Ooo," Malfoy taunted, "that was almost witty."

"Ha-ha."

They settled into silence. Harry took another, more tentative, sip of his fire whiskey – he had the feeling he might need it.

"So," he said, eventually, "how long do we have to hang around here?"

Malfoy looked up from behind a particularly large and sparkly, purple umbrella. He glanced around the dank pub, then settled his eyes scornfully back on Harry.

"Too long."


	6. Chapter 5: Day 3: It's My Party: Part II

Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not mine, and neither is the rugby song that makes a brief appearance in this chapter

Chapter Five

Day Three

It's My Party – Part II

Draco took another deep breath of fresh air. He had managed to stay in that filthy pub for two whole hours – a personal best – before the scent of stale beer and urine became too much. He and Potter had both managed to survive the encounter. There were a couple of arguments, nothing that descended into physical violence – the thought of fighting on the floor of that hovel made Draco feel slightly nauseous – and had even managed a little light conversation, quidditch, lessons, and the like.

"Why do we have to walk back together?" Potter whinged from beside him.

"Because," Malfoy answered, in a professional tone, "I am a gentleman."

Potter snorted. Draco glared at him.

"But," Potter continued to moan, "Someone might see us together."

Draco rolled his eyes. _Why did everyone insist on playing dumb?_

"That," he replied, "is the point. We're supposed to be overcoming past differences and falling deeply in lust."

He smirked as Potter cringed and flushed such an alarming shade of red, that it was visible even in the dark.

"Parkinson must be bloody gullible if she thinks that-" Potter stopped mid-stride, grabbing Draco by the arm and forcing him to stop too, and frowned. "Can you hear that?"

"Stop man-handling me!" Draco exclaimed, "I can't hear-" And then he heard it.

He began searching the night with a frown. It sounded like singing. Really bad singing. What in the name of Merlin!

Potter had his wand in hand and was pointing it at a pair who had just fallen, loudly, out of the tree line to the left of the path. He was also standing a few steps in front of Draco, essentially blocking him from harm – always playing the bloody hero, probably trying to save Draco's life just so he could hold the debt over him.

"Do your balls hang low?" The chanting grew louder, "Do they dangle to and fro?"

"Lumos!" Potter shouted, illuminating the dark figures. Draco seriously doubted that renegade death eaters would be stumbling around Hogsmeade singing drunken songs about balls, but Potter seemed to be taking the matter seriously. That is, until one of the figures launched herself at him, yelling "Harry!"

"Ug." Was Potter's eloquent response as Granger landed in his arms.

"It was so scary!" She shouted. "We were lost in there for hours."

That reminded Draco that there was another person. He didn't know what he expected to see when he looked at the other figure sitting in the grass and brambles at the side of the path, the Weasle perhaps, but certainly not -

"Pansy!"

"Draco!" She cried out cheerfully in response.

He rushed to help the obviously inebriated girl up. She swung upwards and very nearly fell over again. Draco managed to catch her – he'd had practice.

"My hero." She mock- swooned, forcing Draco to catch her again and nearly topple over himself.

"Pansy," he hissed, "what in the name of Merlin do you think you're doing?"

"We got lost," was her cheerful, if slurred, answer, "but it was okay, 'cos 'Mynee taught me a song."

She then launched into another rendition of the song she and Granger had been wailing earlier – it seemed to be entirely about doing very disturbing things to men's genitals. Much to his ever growing displeasure, Granger joined in.

There was a very good reason why Draco bought the drinks when he and Pansy went to The Three Broomsticks, and it wasn't because Rosmerta wouldn't serve her. Pansy Parkinson – despite her many good qualities – could not hold her liquor, and supply to such liquid refreshment had to be controlled at all costs.

"Pansy!" He snapped sharply, getting her attention. Granger went on singing, despite Potter's alarmed efforts to shut her up.

"Pansy," he repeated, "who gave you alcohol?"

Pansy grinned brightly, her slightly red-stained – he didn't want to know – teeth glittering in Potter's wand light.

"Mynee," she sang the answer, "did you know Ros, Ros, Rosie, keeps muggle alcho, alcho, alcho, drink?"

Draco did, in fact, know all about Rosmerta's collection of muggle spirits, he was, however, hoping Pansy would _never_ find out.

"Ooo," Pansy made what was definitely a bad noise, "I don't feel very well." She said.

She lurched away from him and promptly threw-up in the ditch in which she had previously been sitting. Well, at least she'd missed his shoes this time. (The last time she'd been drunk, she had thrown-up all over his favourite pair of emerald green dragon hide boots, which had resulted in a week-long feud, their longest argument to date).

"We should get back to school," Potter said.

Draco was about to ask what exactly he meant by `we`, but then remembered Pansy was there. Perhaps some good would come out of the idiot Mudblood, getting Pansy drunk, after all, what better way to `bond` than trying to smuggle two drunken teenage girls into the castle – that was actually how he and Blaise had become friends. He just hoped, for the sake of his rapidly decreasing sanity, that Pansy could remember this tomorrow.

****

Getting into Hogwarts without being caught proved disturbingly easy, well, after he and Malfoy managed to shut them up. In fact, Harry had the worrying idea that Dumbledore already knew what was happening. Again.

Parkinson and Hermione had meandered their way, quite happily, up to the school gates singing a very loud, very revised – Harry was sure the original hadn't included any hags or randy leprechauns – version of the school song. To two totally different tunes. That, and the vague references to `Hoggy Warty Hogwarts` were the only reasons Harry knew what they were singing at all.

He'd never seen Hermione drunk before. In fact, he was fairly certain that Hermione had never_ been_ drunk before. It was quite funny. Or at least it would be in other circumstances.

When they managed to get them into the entrance hall and make them sign themselves back in, they bid each other a tearful goodbye, involving a great deal of hugging and cheek kissing. Harry found this part the most entertaining of all, not least for the look of abject horror on Malfoy's face – though he couldn't tell if this was because his friend was being so affable to Hermione, or because Parkinson still stunk of vomit.

And so they finally separated and Harry was left to try and drag Hermione up the seven flights of stairs to Gryffindor Tower.

"Harry," she said for what seemed the hundredth time.

"Yes?" He asked, yet again.

"I," she announced, with pride, and not for the first time, "am drunk!"

"I know, Hermione," Harry answered, smiling slightly and catching her as she fell up another stair. He had stopped trying to hush her six staircases ago.

"Pissed!" She went on happily, "Bladdered! Plastered! Rat-arsed! Shit-faced!" She burst into fits of giggles.

"That is not the password, young lady, as well you know." The Fat Lady chastised.

Hermione burst into a fresh wave of giggles, apparently losing control of her legs.

"Cogito Ergo Sum," Harry told the portrait and practically carried Hermione inside.

"Harry!" He heard as the painting closed behind them, "there you are, mate, I thought the ferret had killed you."

Harry struggled across the room with his burden.

"I was about to go and see-" Ron stopped abruptly, "What the-! What's wrong with her?"

He eyed Hermione cautiously. She found her legs again and pulled away from Harry, dropping herself onto a plush red sofa.

"She's-"

"Drunk!" Hermione interrupted, "but shh," she held a finger to her lips, "don't tell anyone."

"Drunk?" Ron repeated, he sounded as if his whole world had been turned upside-down. "Hermione can't be drunk."

"Pansy painted my nails a pretty colour!" Hermione announced, holding an arm up in the air so they could see them.

Harry noticed, for the first time, that Hermione's nails were the same neon pink as Malfoy's `Flaming Pixie`.

"She's drunk," Ron decided, looking at the pink monstrosities.

"Aren't they pretty?"

"Yes, Hermione," Harry answered, ignoring the various nosey Gryffindors in the common room, "very pretty."

She grinned up at him.

"I love you, Harry." She said, rolling herself off the sofa.

Harry rushed forwards and helped her stand.

"I love you too, Hermione," he humoured.

"And of course," she said in her usual, bossy tone, "I love you too, Ron."

Ron stood, red and gawping.

"Maybe you should go to bed, Hermione," Harry suggested.

"Don't want to. Just…give me a minute. If I look at the wall for a bit, I'll be sober. Pansy taught me."

Harry watched as she stared at the wall behind him, swaying slightly.

"There," she grinned, looking back to him, "much better."

She threw herself at him again. Harry wrapped his arms around her – mainly to keep her upright.

"I love you, Harry," she said gain, more quietly, "I did this all for you, you know. I don't drink usually. Not never ever."

"I know, Hermione." Harry humoured, rolling his eyes at Ron over the bushy hair.

Ron looked like he wasn't sure it wasn't all a bizarre dream. Hermione buried her face in his neck.

"I know your secret," she whispered.

Harry went cold.

"Ug," Harry grunted as he was forced to catch the suddenly unconscious girl.

"What's wrong?" Ron asked, sounding panicked.

"She's passed out," Harry answered, struggling with the dead weight. "Give me a hand."

Ron moved towards them and hesitantly took some of Hermione's weight. Harry juggled her about until he was able to scoop her up in his arms.

"What are you doing?" Ron asked, as they headed towards the boys staircase.

"I'm going to put her in my bed," Harry informed him. He wasn't in the mood to argue with Ron. Hermione was heavier than she looked, and though he wasn't the scrawny eleven-year-old he had been, he was far from being a body builder, and the thought of carrying her up so many stairs was daunting.

"You can't do that!" Ron hissed, sounding half-way between horrified and embarrassed.

"What do you suggest then?" Harry asked, starting up the stairs, "should I leave her in the common room, or get Lavender and Pavarti to carry her up to her own bed?"

Ron was silent the rest of the way. The only noises Harry's grunts of exertion and Hermione's gentle snores.

"Open the door, would you?" Harry asked as they reached the seventh year's dormitory, which was unfortunately on the top floor, up seven flights of stairs.

Ron did as he was asked.

Harry dropped her, none too carefully, onto his bed. She didn't wake. He knelt down and pulled off her shoes, which were coated in mud for some reason.

"Harry!" Ron hissed, "you can't undress her!"

"I'm taking off her shoes!"

Ron shut up. When Harry finished, he collapsed wearily with his back against the bed, and dropped the dirty shoes beside him. He looked up at Ron.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on now?" The redhead asked, with a touch of anger.

"I wish I knew." Harry replied.

****

Draco dropped the drunken girl onto her own bed. Crabbe and Goyle had offered their help, but Draco was used to it, plus, he didn't want anyone else to find out where Pansy had been, or more specifically, with whom.

"Drinking with Mudbloods! Singing Muggle songs! What will people say, Pansy?"

She snuggled deeper into the pillow and cracked open a tired eye.

"They'll say," she mumbled, "look at Pansy Parkinson, she's having a bloody good time."

"Pansy-"

"No, Draco," she said, sounding surprisingly alert, but with eyes closed, "Mynee's fun."

"At least call her Granger!" Draco exclaimed.

Pansy glared through drooping eyelids.

"She's fun," Pansy smiled, sleepily, "and she shares my love of Rugby players."

Draco smiled, and shook his head.

"Go to sleep," he told her.

She mumbled a response and slipped into slumber. Draco stroked back the girl's hair from her face and went to find a blanket.

That girl was seriously screwed up.


	7. Chapter 6: Day 4: Quidditch and Hangover

Chapter Six

Day Three

Quidditch and Hangovers

Harry had never been so glad to have a nightmare in his life. At least if he was dreaming about Voldemort, he couldn't dream about Malfoy. And that's when it hit him, Draco Malfoy that is. He scuttled from the undergrowth, grey eyes wide with fear, and quidditch robes in disarray. He didn't see the rock and tripped, falling on top of Harry, who had paused to check his direction. The killing curse flew above them in a flash of green a few inches above Malfoy's hair.

Harry watched Malfoy's terrified eyes dart forwards, to what he knew was the crumpled body of a death eater hit by the curse. Then the eyes met his again, showing a look of understanding that continued to haunt Harry.

With a faint smirk, Malfoy hurled himself up, and began staggering in the direction of the castle. And Harry couldn't even call him a coward, because he would have run too, if he had the choice.

***

Harry refused, in any way, to let his life revolve around Malfoy and that stupid bet. It was for that reason he had decided to spring a surprise early morning quidditch practice on the team. He'd forced himself out of his unproductive moping, and was currently standing in the middle of the quidditch pitch, surrounded by six disgruntled Gryffindors, not known for their early morning good moods. He looked up at his glaring teammates. Perhaps disgruntled was an understatement; Ron looked ready to kill, though that might have had something to do with Hermione.

Harry had ended up sleeping on a couch in the common room, due to the still unconscious girl in his bed – one of the reasons he'd been up so early. When he'd gone upstairs to change out of yesterdays clothes and shower, Hermione had been kneeling with her head in the toilet of one of the stalls in the boys' bathroom. She had grunted something that he presumed was `good-morning`, and thrown-up. It must have been one hell of a hangover, because she didn't even react when the rest of the seventh year boys traipsed in – not even to Ron. They, however, reacted quite violently, especially Neville, who was in his underwear.

Harry snickered, remembering the horrified look on the poor boys face as he squealed and fled the room.

"Harry," Ron growled.

"Oh. Sorry. Right. Ron, I want you by the goals. I'm going to have the chasers working on their Petrie passes."

*

"To the left, Mason! LEFT!" Harry bellowed at the hapless chaser, fifteen minutes later.

"Oh for god's sake." He winced as Mason narrowly avoided Seamus, for once glad that he was standing at the side of the pitch, and not in the air.

"Really, Potter," an annoyingly familiar voice said from behind him, "Your team are playing worse than first year Hufflepuffs. And they don't play at all."

Harry didn't bother turning around.

"I'm not in the mood, Malfoy."

"Come, come, Harry, what's wrong with a little friendly banter?"

Harry rolled his eyes and turned around to tell Malfoy exactly where he could stuff his `friendly banter`, instead he ought sight of Malfoy's companion, a sickly looking Parkinson in over-sized sunglasses.

"What do you want?" He asked, resigned.

"Only the pleasure of you company," Malfoy replied, with far too little sarcasm for

Harry's comfort.

He flushed – something that was becoming an uncomfortable habit around the _ferret_. Malfoy smirked, and Parkinson perked up behind her dark lenses.

"You don't deserve my company," Harry snapped.

He was angrier at himself than at Malfoy, you can't really blame someone for being who they were; and Malfoy was naturally a git. He watched Malfoy forcibly trying not to react to Harry's goading before replying:

"Give me a chance to prove I do," without even missing a beat.

Harry looked away from the almost sincere face, to Parkinson's curious expression, then back.

"Why?" Harry asked, "why should I?"

Malfoy took a step forward. Harry felt the front of his body heat up. He flinched away from Malfoy's breath on his ear.

"You're blushing like a virgin, Potter."

This, of course, only made him blush more.

"Keep it up," Malfoy told him, "And agree, before it starts to seem like I'm begging for you attention."

Malfoy stepped back, taking the uncomfortable heat with him.

"So what do you say, Potter?"

Harry tried, he really did, not to look resentful. Judging by the angry glint in Malfoy's eyes, he wasn't entirely successful.

He opened his mouth, determined to control himself and get it all over with as soon as possible.

"Mason!"

"What the fuck!"

"Arggh!"

Harry had turned at the first yell, just in time to see Mason heading for the middle goal post. He looked forward again, perhaps wondering what all the shouting was about, and his eyes widened comically. He tried to pull up, but it was too late.

Harry winced as Mason hit the post with a crunch. He heard Malfoy snicker.

There was a second cry and Ginny yelled "Ron!"

Harry looked up to the top of the goal post Ron must have been napping against. He seemed to fall in slow motion. Harry had to hand it to his friend, Ron had good reflexes when he was plummeting to his doom. He reached out desperately and grabbed the bottom of the hoop.

"Ron!" Ginny cried again, rushing to the aid of her brother.

Mason was already being steadied by Seamus and Keane.

"Oh for the love of…" Harry trailed off with a sigh.

Five minutes. He takes his eyes off them for five sodding minutes…

"Well," Malfoy, at least, was entertained, "you may be the best flier in school," Harry had the vague impression that the words almost choked the Slytherin, "but you're a bloody useless coach."

Harry chose to ignore what seemed an aweful lot like a back-handed insult if there was such a thing.

"Mason!" He yelled, "do that again and you're off the team. Ron-" He sighed, "stop being such a prat." Well, he'd warned him about napping during practice.

His team glared back at him, all but Mason, who was blushing furiously and refusing to look his way.

"You may have a rebellion on you hands, Potter."

Harry turned around and scowled.

"Didn't Goyle throw his bat at a crow in you last game?"

Malfoy twitched.

"He has a phobia. Does your team have a phobia of staying airborne?"

Harry glared. Malfoy glared. Harry glared some more. Malfoy kept glaring. Harry turned his back and walked over to his team, something he knew would infuriate the Slytherin.

"That's enough for today," he shouted, then muttered to himself, "wouldn't want anyone to lose a limb."

****

The nerve of that, that pleb! Turning away from Draco Malfoy! No one turned their back on a Malfoy? Draco forced himself to relax. It was all for the greater good. The bet would start soon, and then in three short months…

"As mush as I'd prefer you to lose this bet, Darling," Pansy muttered, "at least try and give yourself a sporting chance."

"Pansy, dearest," Draco smirked, "trust me. I know how to play Potter, I've been doing it for years."

That, at least, was true. And fighting had to be part of it. It wouldn't be realistic for he and Harry to suddenly become best friends, so the fighting had to be built into the relationship…In a reasonably diluted fashion. Bickering was acceptable, hexing into tiny, tiny pieces, unfortunately, was not. Draco's wand hand twitched as he watched Potter argue with his team. No hexing, his mind chanted; no hexing, no hexing. Maybe just a little- No! No hexing.

"Whatever you say," Pansy said, Can I go to bed now? My head hurts and that freckly weirdo's glaring at me."

"You're not showing much dedication to our wager."

"I'm tired and hung-over, Draco. If you want vim and vigour, let me get back to bed and you shall have it tomorrow. I'd rather avoid the rest of today if that is at all possible."

"You really are a light-weight."

"I'm not a light-weight. Now take me to bed."

"An order," Draco smirked, "I most certainly cannot refuse."

"Really, Draco, as if I'd ever open my legs for you."

"Oh, you don't need to open you legs, just you mouth."

He imagined that behind the glasses, Pansy's brown eye were glaring at him, as her mouth worked uselessly trying to form words.

"You!" She growled, pink talon directed somewhere to the left of him. "Agh," she cried and stormed off without him.

Draco chuckled to himself, and turned back towards the castle. Breakfast seemed like a good idea, and he'd better find Pansy before she walked into something.

***

"Are you sure you're not hungry, Hermione?" Harry asked for the fourth time since they'd sat down to dinner.

Hermione glared at him from beneath the hand she had fastened to her forehead.

"You," she said in a low voice, "utter bastard."

"Hermione!" Ron gaped.

She groaned.

"Oh, come on," Harry grinned, "a hangover can't last this long."

"I do not," she enunciated, yet again, "have a hangover."

He had taken great pleasure in finding out she remembered very little of her night's exploits, including her claim to know his `secret`.

"Of course, and you weren't singing-"

"All the things I've done for you, and this is the thanks I get!"

"Hermione-"

"Don't you `Hermione` me Harry Potter! Next time you get yourself into one of these absurd situations, don't look to me for support!"

"I don't know what that Slytherin bitch thought she was doing, forcing you to drink like that-"

"Ronald! Shut up!"

He did. She glared at them both, before `Pulling a Malfoy`, and storming out of the Hall in a suitably girly fashion.

"What the bloody hell did _we_ do, Harry?"

Harry shrugged and went back to eating his shepherds pie, tuning out Ron.

"I just don't understand her sometimes."

***

"Pansy would you stop ogling Snape, it's disgusting."

"Oh please," Pansy smiled, "as if you'd never wondered what he looked like under those thick robes."

Pansy had woken up an hour ago and apparently decided she was ready to face what remained of the day. Draco was beginning to wish she hadn't.

"Firstly, he's a man. Secondly, I've known him all my life. Don't be so disgusting."

"So? I've known your father most of my life, it doesn't stop me wondering."

Draco made a strangled noise and tried to wipe the last statement from his brain.

"If you don't shut up, witch, I'm going to hex you mouth closed."

"Be like that, Draco. And while you're at it, you can keep denying that you fancy Potter."

"I do not-!" Draco stopped himself, and ignoring the glare sent his way by Snape, continued in a more civilised tone, "I don't fancy Potter."

"You know," Pansy said, eyes trained on the Potions Professor, "I saw him without those robes once. His trousers are surprisingly tight."

"Pansy," Draco groaned, "I'm trying to eat my dinner."

"No," Pansy corrected, "you're trying to eat **my** dinner. You finished yours ten minutes ago."

"I'm a growing pureblood-"

Yes," she smirked at him, "but growing in which direction."

Draco glared. "I resent that implication. Malfoy's do not get fat."

"Of course not," she turned back to her Snape watching. "You know I have the strangest feeling I've forgotten something."

**TBC**


	8. Chapter 7: Day 5: An Interlude

Chapter Seven

An Interlude

Draco was in a bad mood; a very bad mood. It had taken him twenty minutes longer than usual to make his hair presentable. Soon, thanks to Pansy, he would have to resort to hair gel once again. Due to this, he was extremely late for breakfast, and only porridge was left. It wobbled unappealingly when he prodded it with his spoon, causing him to scrunch up his nose in disgust, which undid all the good work of the anti-wrinkle cream he'd applied that morning. Pansy then had the nerve to offer him a water biscuit (her latest fad), horrible, tasteless things – a bit like Pansy herself. And, to make matters worse, (yes, it was possible,) he overheard a Hufflepuff brat saying that there would be haggis for dinner. Yuck!

So, Draco was in a bad mood; a very bad mood, and, as usual, he was looking for someone to take it out on.

"Move!" He snapped at a first year Slytherin who jumped hastily out of his way.

"Really, Draco, that isn't very _lordly_ of you, is it? Killock's father is nearly as rich as yours is."

"Nouveau riche," Draco scowled.

"Touché, me amour. But money is power."

"There's more to power than money," Draco sneered, stalking into the potions classroom, and causing Snape to raise a disbelieving eyebrow.

"Are you feeling quite alright, darling?"

"I'm bloody hungry!" He snapped.

"I offered you-"

"Something not fit for consumption by a flobberworm," Draco hissed, "you should have at least saved me a pastry or two."

He glared as Pansy muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "or six."

"But you were probably busy socialising with mudbloods over at the Gryffindor table."

It was Pansy's turn to glare as she took a seat at the table in front of him – after the last incident Snape had forbidden them from working together.

She cast one last glare over her shoulder, turning to the front as the bell rang, and Potter and Granger jogged breathlessly into the room. It improved Draco's mood a little to see that Granger still looked grey.

"Potter! Granger! Twenty points from Gryffindor! Sit down!"

Draco smirked as they rushed to the only empty seats, on the left, right at the front of the room. Snape seemed to be in a worse mood than _he_ was – though it was clear he had spent no extra time on his hair that morning.

The professor began a ten minute lecture on toxins, sneering twice as fiercely as usual. Draco wasn't paying much attention, frankly, he didn't need to, toxins had always been an interest of his. When the class was finally sent to collect ingredients - without the legally required cautions - his bad mood had eased a little.

It was Snape who really cheered him up though – not something many people had been able to say about the intimidating professor, but Draco had always been among that privileged few. He was watching Snape hover threateningly over Granger's shoulder, making her hands tremble as she sliced her Bugleweed.

"Miss Granger!" He snapped suddenly, causing even Draco to jump, while Granger squealed and dropped her blade with a clatter. "What in Merlin's name have you done to your hands?!"

Granger flushed and clenched her hands into fists, but not before Draco caught sight of Pansy's favourite colour of nail varnish adorning them. He smirked, if it _was_ Pansy's then it was permanent, unless removed with the matching and suitably expensive un-varnish.

"It's nail varnish, Sir," she answered quietly, while the whole class looked on.

"I can see that very clearly, Miss Granger. Thanks to you sub-standard concealment charm that hideous colour will be forever imprinted on my retina," he stalked around the desk to face her, "I trust, since you attempted to hide it, you are aware of the school's policy on cosmetics."

"Yes, Sir, but-"

"50 points from Gryffindor. Next time," he sneered, "it will be 100."

The Gryffindors didn't so much as whisper disapproval as Snape swept to the front of the room. In front of him, Pansy hastily stuffed her hands beneath her thighs, concealing her own brutally pink nails; in this mood, Snape wasn't likely to stop at the Gryffindors.

As the rest of the class drifted back to their work, Draco let Zabini deal with their simmering cauldron; he doubted it would be anything less than perfect. A soft gasp from just in front of him drew his attention. Pansy was staring at the front of the class. She turned to her left with a sharp movement, and shared a horrified look with Granger, eyes full of fear, before both turned swiftly, and threw themselves into their work with unnecessary vigour.

Draco frowned, there was far too much fear in that glance for it to have anything to do with Madame Mimi's Magical Manicures (makes even the nastiest nails beautiful)©.

_Intriguing_, Draco mused.

He watched them for the rest of the lesson as they shared anxious glances and tried to bury themselves in their cauldrons. He filed the suspicious behaviour away for later blackmail, and concentrated on not doing any work.

When the bell rang, (Snape had left them sitting in silence after the potions were finished,) he started packing away his things as the rest of the students fled, including Pansy. Snape looked up from his book and sneered.

"Mr Malfoy, this is a classroom, not a common room. Ten points from Slytherin."

_Bloody Arsehole_, Draco glared, _I'll be telling my father about that_.

He scooped up the rest of his belongings and almost swore; he couldn't tell his father anything, not if he didn't want to draw any unnecessary attention to his current situation.

He stormed out of the room with as much elegance as one could manage in such a dreadful situation, without having eaten any breakfast. Halfway down the hall, he paused at the sound of hushed voices, and crept closer, peeking out from behind a statue of a Malaclaw.

"He can't kill us if he doesn't know it was us," Pansy hissed as she shoved a bottle of Madame Mimi's Magical Manicure Remover at Granger.

"But what if-"

"Have you told anyone?"

"I've just remembered!"

"Good, just don't tell anyone. And by anyone, I mean Potter and your boyfriend too."

"He's not my…never mind." Granger sighed, "I'm never drinking again. And I'm going to be late for Arithmancy. I'll give you this back at lunch." She gestured the bottle, slipping it into her pocket. "Bye."

"Whenever. Just remember to keep you mouth shut!" Pansy called after her.

"I don't have a death wish, Pansy." Granger shouted back over her shoulder.

When Granger had disappeared around the corner, Draco slid out from his hiding place.

"So," he said, eliciting a guilty jump from Pansy, "is there something you would like to tell me."

"Bugger off, Draco." She glared, and stalked away down the corridor.

A future of torture and possible blackmail lay ahead of Pansy – that would teach her. But for now, he needed to do some reading; Potter's friends would need convincing for him to beat Pansy, and he'd just had another brilliant idea. He really had to start writing those down.


	9. Chapter 8: Day 6 8: Opiate of the Masses

Chapter Eight

Opiate of the Masses

Tuesday

"_If I love a boy,_" Lavender read aloud, "_why keep quiet about his name?_"

She turned the piece of parchment over in her hands, but there was no more to it than the one line, carefully written in deep red ink in the centre of the page.

"What's that supposed to mean?" She asked eventually, to an equally perplexed group of her peers.

As if working with one mind they all turned to Hermione (except Harry, who was desperately trying to hide, using nothing but his hand and a bowl of cereal). Hermione looked up from her book and stared back at them. They watched her expectantly.

"Am I expected to know everything?"

Seamus opened his mouth to reply. Dean – _wisely_ – elbowed him in the ribs – _hard._

Hermione rolled her eyes, but snatched the parchment from Lavender's hands.

"Well," she said, running her fingers over the parchment, "it's very good quality. Expensive." She squinted. "The ink, I think, is sanguineous, a colour used almost exclusively by purebloods."

Harry was momentarily distracted from his embarrassment by Hermione's acting ability. If he hadn't known better, he would have sworn she didn't know it was from Malfoy. Beside him Ron wasn't doing half as well, all the colour had drained from his face and he had a death grip on his fork.

"As for the line," Hermione continued, "I believe it was written by Abu Nuwas. He was an Islamic poet."

She set the parchment on the table and went back to her cereal and what seemed to be a very old book on wizarding traditions. The table broke into whispers, most, Harry noticed, containing the words `pureblood` and `he`. The someone (Seamus to be precise) dared to ask the question clearly on all their minds.

"So," he said, "this Abu bloke was, well, a bloke, and he was writing about another bloke, does that mean he was, you know, a pouf?"

Okay, so not quite the question on everyone's mind. In fact, no one but Seamus actually seemed to care about that bit, especially when Hermione began what promised to be a long, boring lecture on poetry and wine boys, and something about gazelles.

It was, surprisingly, Neville who saved them from a fate worse than double History of Magic (worse because Hermione noticed if you fell asleep). For once, Harry would have been happy with the lecture as long as it steered them away from the topic of his letter.

"What Seamus meant to say," Neville interrupted her, nervously, "is if the original writer was a man, then is Harry's secret admirer a man too?"

Hermione glanced at Harry. He gave a slight shrug; what difference did it make?

"I'd say it was very likely."

The whispers began again.

"Whoever it is," she added, already disappearing back into her book, "they're very well-read."

"And pureblood," Pavarti added, "because of the ink."

"Rich too," Lavender said, "by the look of that parchment. I got some like that for my birthday, it's made by goblins using gold leaf. My dad nearly had a heart-attack when he saw the price."

There were murmurs of agreement, and Harry noticed Ron eying the parchment hungrily.

"It must have been a Ravenclaw, then," Seamus announced.

Harry noticed the corner of Hermione's mouth twitch upwards; as if she was trying not to smile (Harry didn't see what was funny).

"Terry Boot bumped into Harry in the corridor outside charms last Tuesday," Lavender said.

The table fell silent, and the boys gave a collective blink, eyes all fixed on Lavender.

"What?"

"Lasses are weird," Seamus said, "I think Harry might have the right idea." He reached an arm around Ron and clapped Harry on the back.

The boys laughed, and Hermione hid a snort of amusement in her tome.

"Me?" Harry asked, " I don't have any ideas! I'm the victim in all this!"

"Boys!" Parvati exclaimed in exasperation, then she and Lavender turned to their own conversation.

"Boys!" Seamus mimicked, turning to Dean with an effeminate droop of his hand.

The table erupted in laughter.

Harry had the uneasy feeling of being watched.

***

Wednesday

_"What will put out the fire_

_ That you have lit in me,_

_ O, most fearsome of men?"_

Seamus had made the first grab for the note today, as soon as the school owl landed in front of Harry. He read it in a grand voice, ending with a mock bow in Harry's direction.

"Okaay," Lavender frowned.

"Is it by the same person?" Parvati asked, "that Abu fellow?"

"Probably," Seamus answered, tossing down the note. "It sounds just as gay."

Harry flinched.

"It's not by Abu Nuwas," Hermione said from Harry's right.

She was reading the same book as yesterday (a rare occurrence) and pushing cereal around her bowl idly. Once again all eyes were on Hermione, awaiting her – hopefully brief – explanation.

"It's by Hasan al-Nawaji," she looked up from her book, keen to show off her knowledge on the subject.

Harry was impressed, despite the fact that he had caught her in the early hours of that morning, hiding in a corner of the common room surrounded by books on poetry.

"But Seamus is correct, the poem was directed at a boy. He answer `_my lips_`."

"Must be a bloody ponce," Ron muttered, "all this poetry and flowers. Poor Harry."

"Whatever." Seamus stood up. "Did anyone get the question on organic transformations in transfiguration? It's a bitch."

"McGonagall leant me a book," Dean said, as the rest of the group followed Seamus' lead, gathering their things and standing, "you can borrow it."

"Thanks mate," Seamus clapped him on the back as they headed out of the hall.

Ron jogged after them. "I need it after him."

"Really, Ron. I told you to do that last week," Hermione huffed, hurrying away from the table.

"I didn't have the book."

"That's what libraries are for."

"Yeah, if you're boring."

"Don't come moaning to me when you fail your NEWT's ."

Harry started to dawdle after them, then paused. Quickly, he took a couple of steps back and snatched up Malfoy's parchment, before rushing out of the hall.

At the Slytherin table, Draco Malfoy turned to his female companion and smirked.

Thursday

The third poem made even Seamus blush. Parvati stuttered to a stop before the first `_cock_` with and embarrassed `oh my`, and the note was quickly passed around the group. Lavender broke into giggles, taking Parvati with her. Ron, Neville and Dean looked decidedly queasy – particularly Ron. Seamus began making crude jokes. Hermione cast a critical eye over the scrolling words, and pronounced it to be by Martial, following up with a brief explanation no one was listening to.

Harry was burning, though he wasn't sure whether it was with rage, embarrassment or…something else entirely.

"Whoever he is," Dean said, "he seems to _really_ like Harry."

"I think it's sweet," Parvati said.

"Isn't it," Lavender agreed.

"Sweet!" Seamus laughed, "have someone stick their cock up your arse and see how sweet it is then."

Lavender glared at him.

"Well obviously that one was about lust," she snapped, "it doesn't mean the others weren't sweet."

"Whoever it is," Neville said, "he does seem to have gone to a lot of expense."

"Probably just has more money than sense," Ron grumbled, glaring at the latest parchment, which lay innocuously in front of Hermione.

The bushy haired girl looked up from her book and levelled a glare at Ron.

"Are you saying," she said, in a threateningly low voice, "that Harry isn't worth it?"

Harry blinked in surprise, and watched Ron gulp.

"I-no-it's just-well-I-Money isn't everything!"

Hermione looked at him for a moment longer before seemingly deciding it was a good enough answer and going back to her book.

"It's not just money though, is it?" Dean said.

The group – not including Hermione – turned to him.

"I mean," he cleared his throat uncomfortably, "the notes aren't ostentatious, neither was the rose. They have and expensive feel to them, but they're tasteful."

"Old money," Lavender nodded to herself, as if adding it to a mental list.

Dean nodded too, and went on. "It's like, yeah, they went to a lot of expense, but they're not trying to buy Harry's affection. The rose looked hand picked, and it must have taken bloody ages to dig up all that poetry. Why would they go to so much effort if they didn't really like Harry?"

Harry wanted nothing more than to answer that question for them all.

"Never knew you were such a sodding romantic, mate," Seamus said, looking at his friend in shock.

"He's right though," Parvati said.

There were mumbles of assent from most of the group.

"Looks like somebody's in love with you," Lavender said, smiling at him.

TBC


End file.
